


Olive

by Decada



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Family, Fire, Gen, Prostitution, Tragedy, rape implication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 02:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10981659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decada/pseuds/Decada
Summary: What is he to do to protect his family and all he's worked for, from the poison of the Harlot?





	Olive

Springtime was always the perfect period of the year. The air wasn't sticky with humidity, nor so cold that the chill bit into the bones, with the rain showers promising a full, colorful bloom in the quiet afternoons. After the showers, the vibrant-colored birds would bathe in the remaining pools of water and filling the air with beautiful songs. It was because of these reasons that Julius took his son, Veneziano, out for leisurely strolls through the Vargas family olive grove.

Absolutely nothing brightened Julius's day more than seeing his wonderful, buoyant child bound ahead of him, marveling the plump green and black fruits of their labor and the tulips and daisies that flourished here and there. Today was no different, as Julius let his child run to his favorite tree, the one that looked like an old man's face carved into the bark (at least that's what the child says; Julius can't see anything of the sort on this tree) and pluck the olives that fell on the grass.

When the man finally caught up to him, he crossed his arms and tilted his head as he watched Veneziano attempt to lure a stray cat closer by holding out an olive to it. Should he tell this boy that cats don't eat olives and offering such will likely not work? He should, but damn if it wasn't sweet watching his child behave amiably to the creature, voice gentle and eyes bright, the little angel exuding warmth and tenderness from his small frame.

Unfortunately for the boy, the creature didn’t share Julius’s sentiments. The stray cat, having enough of Veneziano's shenanigans, scurried off. Veneziano lowered his hand and pouted. "Aw, he ran away! Why do cats always run from me?"

"Well, Vene," Julius said, approaching closer to his child, "many homeless cats fear people, and are wary of us; they don't want to be in danger by someone they don't know." He smiled gently. "But if you want, we can set out some of Mama's leftover lunch again to feed them. That may warm them up to you."

A gentle breeze swept at Veneziano's hair as he grinned and nodded eagerly. He stood up and took Julius's hand, the elder's large, hairy one completely wrapping up Veneziano's own tiny hand.

Together, they took the familiar path through the fields etched in the ground by them and the generations of Vargases before them. The grove was alive with the labor of Julius's hired hands grunting with effort, discussing methods of shipments, and, if they weren't too tired from the work, singing. There was something about the Vargas family that spread mirth to the people whose lives were touched by them, and one of the signs of this magic was that the air filled with songs, from both birds and humans.

Veneziano caught a lyric of a song carried to him by the wind, and he found himself singing along to the mysterious man:

_"Plaisir d’amour_   
_Ne dure qu’un moment:_   
_Chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie!"_

Julius chuckled. "You know, that is the same song I sang to woo your mother."

The child's wide, golden eyes stared up at Julius. "Really?"

"Yes. She hated it." Julius continued to chuckle to himself and shake his head. "But not enough to decline my courtship. Thank God Almighty. I can't wait until you will sing the same for your own love someday."

Such a spoken wish opened the discussion of Veneziano’s future marriage; of the way his wife will look, how many grandchildren the young boy will bless his parents with, and how he and his wife will continue the Vargas’ olive legacy. But as expected of five-year-olds, Veneziano’s attention wandered elsewhere, so he was soon pointing out the bugs, flowers, and whatever else was colorful and moving. Julius didn’t mind, not when the man cherished every squeal, chirp, and giggle of his child. The rest of their father-son stroll was spent on Veneziano plucking olives from the ground to gather in his satchel. As he did so, Julius took some time to discuss with the leaders of the workers the progress made today and over the week, soon turning into conversations of their families and politics, whichever direction the chat took, they went.

When Veneziano complained of being hungry, Julius checked the position of the sun to determine and confirm that, yes, it was indeed time for lunch. Taking the boy’s hand once more, Julius led him back to their home from the path that they took. Worn grass soon turned to hard brick and dirt, and just as they climbed the gentle slope, the humble house (at least humble in the standards of the wealthy) appeared before them, white, with red tiles making up the roof and polished mahogany making up the door and window shutters. The shutters of the kitchen were open, allowing scents of boiled vegetables, baked meats, and freshly-baked breads to greet man and son, as well as the view of a woman and some servants bustling about in the kitchen.

Once inside, Julius called out, “My love, we’re home!”

“I am in the kitchen!” a woman’s voice, light yet still firm with a stern undertone, called back. “You wash Veneziano’s face and hands before you two eat!”

“Yes, love.” Julius led Veneziano to the washroom and sat him upon a high stool. He pumped a bowl full of water, grabbed a washcloth, and dipped it in the water before scrubbing the child’s face and hands. He clicked his tongue and shook his head; although Veneziano was a playful child, he wasn’t rough nor wild during their walks together, so how on earth does this boy’s cheeks and hands always end up so dirty? Maybe Veneziano does play around too much in the dirt while Julius and his men weren’t looking.

Once finished, Julius and Veneziano walked to the dining room, where the long family table was full of bowls of fruits and platters of bread. Julius and Veneziano sat and nibbled on grapes and slices of apples, watching the servants carry in the rest of the food. Finally, the one with the honor of carrying the pot of hearty, flavorful stew was Cecilia. When she arrived, Julius rested his elbows on the table and locked his fingers under his chin, his smile soft and full of playful infatuation as he watched his wife, cheeks slightly red from being near the stove, auburn hair tied up in a messy bun with wisps of it still hanging on either side of her delicate chin, and her rose-tinted lips scowling as she pondered any part of the meal that she may have forgotten, though what she and the workers have made was more than enough for the three members of the family, and to provide bountiful leftovers for the kitchen workers. In a word:

“Stunning...”

Cecilia huffed and took a napkin to dab some of the sweat from her face. “Don’t you sweet talk me already, you lovesick pup. You aren’t getting out of trouble for showing Veneziano the maids’ bathing quarters!”

“What?” Julius shrugged. “What’s wrong with showing our son what to expect when it’s his time? Especially when he was so curious! Besides, the ladies didn’t seem to mind--”

“Until they actually saw you two and were ready to murder you.” Cecilia waved a wooden ladle at her husband. “You were lucky they recognized you before they did any damage to our boy.”

“I can fight them back, though!” Veneziano pointed out. “Papa taught me how to defend myself!”

“Veneziano! You will not hit any girls!” Cecilia scolded him as she poured him some stew.

“Except Elizaveta,” Julius added. “You can give her a good swing.” Julius looked towards the unsmiling face of his wife and frowned at her in return. “Now, you cannot tell me that the Hungarian girl isn’t a little manly to you?”

“Still, Julius, she is a girl.” Cecilia waved her finger at her son. “No hitting her.”

Veneziano pouted. “But she hits me all the time!”

“There is a difference between mean-spirited hitting and being spanked for trying to look up the neighbor girl’s skirt.” Cecilia’s glared darted right back to Julius. “And again, Julius: shame on you for teaching him that.”

Julius was about to give his retort, or excuse, or whatever his increasingly-shamed mind could make up when a knock at the dining hall’s door interrupted his thoughts. All three of the Vargas turned to the gangly teen standing in the doorway, a hand fidgeting with the black beads of his rosary. “Er, my pardons Master Julius and Lady Cecilia.” He nodded to Veneziano. “Sir Veneziano.”

“What brings you here, figlio?” Julius asked, eyeing the rosary as it clicked in the servant’s hand, telling him exactly what he was going to hear before the boy spoke it.

“The har--... er, she has returned...”

Julius looked from his servant to Cecilia, his spoon lowering into his bowl. “She ‘returned’? She was here?”

Cecilia set the ladle down on its placemat and sighed, while Veneziano glanced back and forth between his parents, watching his father slam the palms of his hands on the table, push his chair away, and rise out of his seat as if he was ready to fight.

The teenaged servant avoided contact with both eyes and body as he stepped aside to allow Julius to storm pass him, then avoided the tired and irritated glower of his Mistress. Odd as it was since it was all out of his control, the servant felt deep guilt for interrupting and ruining the family’s lunch. But what could he do? If not even the strong-armed guards bearing weapons and venom in their voice couldn’t deter her, how was he to stop her, as subjugating and thin-bodied as he was?

And she exuded such headstrong auras once Julius entered the den, the curves of her body extenuated as she lied on the long lounge chair and let the skirt of her gown cascade over her legs to the floor.

Julius grew disgusted with himself that, no matter how much hell this whore raised for him and his family, he could still feel his groin throb gently from her decadent figure. Thank goodness his will was strong when his body was so weak.

“It was about time you showed up,” the woman reprimanded him.

Julius stopped in the middle of the room and turned his nose up. “Why in the fires of Hell are you here, Helena?”

Both he and Helena knew that the question didn’t need asking, which the woman pointed out by saying, “Why do you think, agapi mou?”

“Do not call me that,” Julius spat. He then scoffed and continued, “If I had to guess, I would say that the church men grew tired of throwing coins at you for what you pass out freely anyway.”

Helena half-smiled. “Well, you didn’t seem to mind when I was giving it to you.”

“Helena,” Julius forced through gritted teeth. “What do you want?”

“He asked for you, again.” Helena rose to a sitting position and stretched. If she noticed the way Julius’s eyes flickered to her bosoms pushing against her satin gown, she pretended to not to. Or maybe that was her goal; she was not shy about flaunting her beauty to win men over.

“What happened to telling him that I’m dead?”

“It’s hard to convince him that you are dead when you walk about your orchard like a carefree fool. He sees you every day out there, with that equally foolish son of yours.” Helena’s voice grew soft as she bowed her head. “His heart breaks every time I tell him that his own father doesn’t want anything to do with him. It’s cruel what you do to him, Julius.”

“No. What is cruel is that you didn’t give up the little bastard when he was born so he’d have an actual family.” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “You latch on to him so you can have my fortune, playing me like a moron when I know that at least half of Venice must have fathered that cur of yours!”

It was like a cobra springing towards its prey, the way Helena jumped out of her seat to get right into Julius’s face. “You will not speak of our son that way! And you know he is yours! He looks just like you and your precious Veneziano. And if you have forgotten, you were the only man I’ve pleasured more than twice!”

Without thinking, Julius gripped Helena’s arm and squeezed until he forced out a gentle, pathetic whimper from the woman. “You will not bring up my terrible, terrible mistake here, do you understand?!”

Helena’s body took on an awful tremble, from her body that Julius could feel in his hand to her voice as she replied, “Why do we have to hide it, hm, agapi mou? It’s not like she didn’t know that you turned to me and made love to me countless times when she couldn’t bare you your son!”

She spoke loud enough so that the entire house could listen to her ruining Julius’s good name, but she spoke even louder like an announcement to a crowd, “And if it weren’t for the fact that God blessed that barren whore with a child, you still would have come to me again and again and again!”

And that was the last thing Julius would allow this harlot to say. His grip ever tighter on Helena’s arm, Julius began to drag the woman towards the front entrance.

“You wanted more children from me!”

“Quiet!”

“I gave you the son you wanted, and this is how you repay me?!”

“I said quiet, whore!”

“God will punish you for your cruelty, you horny mutt! You and your little family!”

Her last bit of desperate screeching she had to say fell on deaf ears as soon as Julius shut the door in her face. He turned and stormed back into the dining hall, greeted by the silence of his family as Cecilia and Veneziano kept their eyes on the table. Julius walked over to them and watched his wife. He crossed his arms and took a deep.

“You didn’t tell me that she came here.”

Cecilia sighed, “No, I didn’t—”

“You should have told me, Cecilia.”

“I know.”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

“Because, Julius, I was busy cooking and cleaning, remember? I thought these guards would get rid of her, so I paid her no mind.” She laid down her bread roll to comb her fingers through her hair. “And you were having such a good day with Veneziano, and I didn’t want to send off a servant to tell you and ruin your day.”

As he listened, Julius nodded slowly. Even though she tried to hide it, he knew he could see the truth in her eyes, the real reason she chose not to tell him. It must have been the hundredth time that he has said this, but still, he said, “Cecilia, I have no feelings for her. Never have, and never will. She was a mistake I made from desperation.”

Cecilia wanted to believe him, to continue rebuilding the trust between them, but she eyed the hands folded in front of his pelvis. “Are you sure?”

His cheeks suddenly flushed with a burning red. “She didn’t do this to me!”

“So, you just fell to lust on your own while you two were in the same room?”

“Cecilia, for God’s sake—”

“Um…”

Both pairs of eyes fell to the tiny child. Julius’s throat tightened, and Cecilia’s gut knotted, at the sight of the boy making himself even smaller in his chair. He didn’t lift his head much, but he did look at them both through the bangs draping from his hanging head.

“Can I, um, can I feed the cats now…?”

“Yes,” they answered simultaneously.

Veneziano hurriedly scooped more helpings of stew into his bowl, stuffed rolls of bread into a napkin, and carried his meal away. Relief seeped in slow drops the more he escaped the escalating argument. Once outside and a safe distance away from his home, Veneziano slowed his pace. He strolled down to the patch where cobblestone path and dirt trail met, paused, and looked around. He didn’t see any curious eyes staring at him, so he scampered off to yet another path less travelled and hidden well with overgrown bushes and tall blades of grass. Taking one last look around him to make certain that none spotted him, Veneziano continued his way. The walk took a few minutes—this time, longer than usual due to the angry flies and rabid mice he had to avoid—but soon, he saw the great, mysterious patch of forest that no one else knew about.

Their perfect hiding spot.  
Veneziano walked through between the two tall trees that stood like a gate. He stopped, looked around for his starting marker, a thin and sickly olive tree that an incompetent worker grew within the forest of mighty oak and pine trees. Spotting it, Veneziano went over to it and started counting his paces from there.

Ten oaks down, turn left, three pines, stop at and look between the poplar trees.

There, he found the cherry tree that was lit by the patches of sunlight peeking through the thick branches and leaves of its surrounding neighbors. And, as expected, there sat a boy on the base, his head bowed as he gathered the fallen cherries around him, popping each one in his mouth and spitting out the seeds.

Veneziano smiled ear to ear and called out, “Lovino!”

The boy under the tree flinched, coughed from suddenly choking on his snack, and turned his tearing eyes to the younger lad as Veneziano sprinted the rest of the short distance. “You idiot!” Lovino spat as Veneziano approached him. “What did I tell you about shouting? Are you trying to get us caught?!”

“Um, no, I just... I mean, no one is nearby—I made sure of that! —and no one still knows of our special tree. I think.” Veneziano started to crumble under Lovino’s glower, so to appease him, the boy lifted the bundle of food he brought over.

Lovino eyed the food, sighed, and waved Veneziano over. Veneziano skipped over without spilling a drop of the stew, to Lovino’s surprise, and sat the food down in front of him. He handed Lovino a spoon, to which Lovino thanked him, and sat down across from him to watch him eat.

After a couple scoops and devouring a roll, Lovino asked, “Was Papa mad when my Mama came?” Veneziano nodded, and Lovino scoffed, “Of course she’d make him mad.”

“I think he would be less mad if he saw you, though,” Veneziano said.

“He wouldn’t.” Lovino wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“Why? You wouldn’t know if you try.”

Again, Lovino fixed a nasty glower on Veneziano, instantly silencing the younger child. Veneziano instead folded his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He rested his chin on them and watched Lovino. If it weren’t for the slightly darker skin and hair given to him by his mother, the age gap, and the green eyes always alit with some internal fire, Veneziano could have sworn that he was looking at a reflection of himself. Or, to be more accurate, a much younger version of his—their—father.

Seeing Lovino devour the lunch Veneziano brought to him made him realize that he hadn’t eaten much before slipping out of the house, a fact supported by a low rumble in his stomach. Yet Veneziano ignored his hunger, since there’s more back home. There’s always more back home: more food, more seats at the table, more rooms, more olives for him, Papa, Mama, and Lovino. If only Papa would just let Lovino in. And, in some part of Veneziano’s mind, he wanted Helena to be a part of the family too. Why shouldn’t she? She had Lovino, and she was so nice to Veneziano, even taking care of him when his mother was too ill to do so. And Papa… Papa used to love Lovino. He may have been mean to Helena whenever she came over, much more so than Mama was, but he cherished Lovino, promising both boys a bright future when he gave them his olive orchard.

Veneziano’s honey eyes wandered to the cherries dotting the lush grass around them. What happened?

Lovino laid the empty bowl and napkin onto the ground. He noticed the eager and expectant gaze from Veneziano and rolled his eyes. He then lifted the tattered hem of his shirt to pull out an aged, wooden flute tucked in the waistband of his pants.

He waited until Veneziano scooted next to him to hand him the instrument. “What did I teach you the last time?”

“How to play my first song! ‘Plaisir d’amour’!”

“Alright, then. Do you remember where to put your fingers?”

The lesson carried on as it normally did: Lovino making him practice moving his fingers while playing the flute; Veneziano going over the first part of the song over and over before moving on to the second; Lovino exuding the patience and encouragement that he rarely showed outside these moments; and finally, Veneziano playing the song over and over until Lovino had him stop. Afterwards, the boys simply lied out on the ground to watch the treetops. They counted the many diverse types of partridges they spotted flying from the branches, and played with the beetles with shells that shone like gems; when it seemed like Lovino had dozed off, Veneziano braided a daffodil in a lock of his brother’s hair (and received a quick pinch on his arm from a Lovino that was very much awake).

They reached the part of their secret meetings where Veneziano helped Lovino gather as many cherries as the napkin could carry, with both filling the remaining moments with plans on when they could come back and what Veneziano could convince his mother to cook for Lovino (without her knowledge of whom the next lunch was made for). Lovino turned to leave, but stopped as Veneziano took hold of his elbow and pulled him back. He gave his brother a tight hug. Lovino stiffened in the embrace, mostly due to the fear that the fruit they’ve gathered would be crushed between them, but he then returned the hug with one arm.

“Can you come back with me?”

Veneziano knew that asking was pointless, because each time he asked, it bore the same answer, but Lovino had to have changed his mind this time; he had to be sick of living in squalor and constant hunger, and he had to know that Papa still loves him; Lovino just needed to see him again to show Papa how much he love him and—

“No, Vene,” Lovino sighed into Veneziano’s hair. “My Mama’s waiting for me.”

“Okay.” Veneziano loosened his hold on Lovino, but remained hugging him for just a few more moments. Only did Lovino become a little irritable did he let him go.

After Lovino disappeared into the foliage, Veneziano picked up the bowl and spoon and went on his way. Like earlier as he entered the forest, Veneziano paused here and there to be sure that no one saw him. He hurried back home; he slowly opened the door and poked his head inside. Only the shuffle of feet and clinking of dishes and silverware filled the house. It was good that there wasn’t any arguing still, but he wouldn’t let himself feel relief. Not yet.

He passed his dishes to a passing servant and went to the dining hall. There, a servant left another bowl of warm stew at his seat, and still very hungry from only eating a couple spoons of his previous serving, Veneziano wolfed the entire thing down, along with two rolls that were deliciously, cake-like sweet. After his meal, Veneziano went to his room to follow the next activity in his schedule: a tutoring session with Papa. Judging by the exhausted and annoyed frown etched into his father’s face (that looked so much like Lovino’s, Veneziano couldn’t help noting) the child knew that he was late. He looked away, pursing his lips and holding on to his wrist with the opposite hand. Then, slowly, with apologetic eyes that he hoped would change Papa’s mind, the boy let go of his wrist and raised it up.

“Why do I have to tell you so many times to not be late,” Julius sighed. He slipped the ruler from the desk and delivered ten whippings to the tender skin; it was two more than last time, letting the child know that, again, his tardiness is increasing too much.

Besides his eyes watering, Veneziano didn’t allow himself to show distress. But, as he rubbed at the red, punishing mark, he did briefly wonder if this was worth the back and forth trips. Then he remembered the beautiful tune of the flute Lovino taught him to make, the warm sunlight on his skin as they lied side by side and talked about their day.

Yes. Yes, it was worth it.

Julius pointed to the desk with the supplies already set up on it. Veneziano sat down and picked up his pen.

“What did I teach you the last time?” Julius asked.

“Writing my signature.” There was a hint of a sob in his voice from the slap still stinging him.

“Right. Now, I want you to practice your signature ten more times, and then we’ll move on to the next part: writing a letter. Begin.”

Under Julius’s watch, Veneziano wrote and rewrote his name. But for a child his age, the neat, delicate but wide characters looked more like strokes of a paint brush. Julius smiled to himself; yet another skill he has passed down to his child. He reached to rub Veneziano’s head when an oddity caught his eye: blades of grass and pieces of twigs were stuck in the vibrantly red hair. He had a flash of fury, and just as suddenly as it came, it started subsiding.

He should be mad that once more, Veneziano went behind his back and worm the bastard and his whore of a mother even more into their lives, but is that truly a valid reason? He and Cecilia knew what their son’s plan was when they let him eat outside, so they should have said no. Not to mention the fact that Veneziano was just a child, a boy who loved so much and didn’t understand the challenges and shame of this entire ordeal. Who didn’t understand the curse that was Helena.

“Papa?”

Julius blinked and drew out of his thoughts to find Veneziano’s golden eyes staring at him.

“Papa, are you okay?”

“Yes, Veneziano, I am fine.” He looked over the script Veneziano made and nodded. “Good, good. Now, fresh sheet of paper. Write down what I say.” Since walking helped him think better, Julius stepped back and began pacing the room, hands held behind his back, head held high, rich voice dictating a short business letter he once wrote some time ago. Every now and then, Julius would pause to let his pupil catch up.

Veneziano hummed to himself over the scratch of pen on parchment. His thoughts soon wandered to fantasies of Lovino being here with him, both learning the tricks of the trade their father and the men before him built for the Vargas name and then, when Veneziano begged enough, for them to continue their lessons with the flute without having to hide it. And then, each night, with bellies full of his mother’s comforting food and curiosity sated with their father’s tale of military valor and experiences with other cultures he visited, Veneziano and Lovino would whisper to each other jokes and stories until they drift to sleep…

“Alright, son, let me see your work.”

Veneziano gasped and jumped. The jolt made him scratch an ugly line through the last couple sentences of his letter. And the letter itself was ruined; during his vivid daydreaming, Veneziano let the style of his handwriting slip right back to his unpracticed scribble. There was no way he could fix it, and he became doubly certain once Julius took the parchment away and started to read it over. The child squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head. He did not like the way Papa stopped pacing, sighed, and clicked his tongue over and over. He squeaked when his father slapped the letter back on the desk.

“…You’re going to stop seeing that boy.”

And then there was that. Upon hearing the demand the first time, Veneziano’s blood ran cold, but after hearing it again and again, he learned to ignore it and slip out to their secret spot in the forest. He could just as easily ignore it then, too, but something about this time didn’t feel right. It felt bitter, frustrated, and final.

Keeping his eyes on the desk, Veneziano murmured, “I don’t—know what you’re talking about—”

“Veneziano. Enough. I’ve been patient with you and this—thing you have with her boy, trusting you would know to stop this, but I see that I was wrong. I forbid you from seeing that bastard!”

“Papa, no!”

Julius slammed his fist on the desk. “Don’t you tell me no, child! I will not stand to have him or his whore of a mother ruin you, too!”

“No!” Flames seemed to have consumed Veneziano’s heart, driving him wild as he jumped out of his seat and swung his own tiny fists at Julius. “You can’t stop me from seeing him!”

“Veneziano, stop this right now!”

“He’s my brother! You can’t—”

“He is nothing to us; do you hear me?!”

“I hate you!”

Veneziano ran off just as Julius made a grab for him. Instead of giving chase, Julius swept the contents of the desk onto the floor, followed by hoisting up the chair and throwing it across the room. Neither channeled the fury boiling in him well, so he was left to stand in his mess, nails digging into his palms, breaths going in and out harshly, listening to the boy’s wails fill the house with despair. The fury then subsided to exhaustion; Julius went to his son’s bed and sunk into its plush mattress, cupping his hands over his face.

Why couldn’t Veneziano just understand?

The young boy’s cries drew Cecilia out of the kitchen, and just like many times before, he found her waiting at the table, seat pulled away so he could easily climb onto her lap and fall into her arms, which he did. She cradled him, rocked him until the sobbing and trembling stopped, and sang gently to him. It was that song again; it astounded him how much he’s heard that song today, even if it was his favorite melody. And now? He didn’t know how to feel about it: it mostly reminded him of the flute lessons with Lovino, and thinking of Lovino made him think of their father, and the woman who gave birth to his brother, and the mess that’s hurting Lovino more than anyone, and—

“Vene, my love.” Cecilia tilted her son’s chin so he would look at her. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can shatter a mother’s world than seeing such devastation and turmoil in eyes once so pure and joyful. “Please don’t be mad at your father. He is only thinking of your well-being.”

Veneziano sniffed and shook his head. “Why does Papa hate Lovino? Why can’t I have a brother?”

Cecilia sighed, “Your father doesn’t hate Lovino, he…” He hates Helena. That would have been the truth, and make Lovino blameless of this entire ordeal because he was simply a result of Julius’s mistake, but does she really want her son to learn of hatred? What if—God forbid—Veneziano made a similar mistake with his wife? He shouldn’t learn how to handle the situation like his father by placing his self-loathing and anger onto others and, in the process, break his children’s hearts. Not even Cecilia herself can bring herself to hate Helena or her child anymore; the constant rage and disgust was too much for her, made her weary, all a waste of time considering nothing has changed.

“Mama?”

Cecilia gasped softly and looked into the waiting and curious eyes of her baby. “I’m sorry, my son, my thoughts seemed to have gotten away from me. What I meant to say was that your father doesn’t hate Lovino, he’s just so tired from trying to find a way to fix all of this.”

Veneziano pinched a part of Mama’s dress and rubbed the soft material between his fingers. “Why is it so hard, though? Couldn’t Papa just let Lovino live with us? That’s all Helena wants, isn’t it?”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be the right thing to do,” Cecilia grumbled to herself. “I truly do not know why Julius fights his duty, other than to win.”

“How can he win when he’s losing a son?” Veneziano wasn’t sure if he meant Lovino when he asked that.

“He believes he’s winning his pride back.”

Pride? Is that what this was all about? Is this why he couldn’t see his brother and be a family, because pride meant more to Papa than love? Veneziano’s face hardened. “I hate him.”

Cecilia suddenly forced Veneziano to sit up and took his squarely by the shoulders. Her face was equally hardened, her voice stern as she said, “Child, listen to me. Do not say that! Do not ever say that. Hatred is what’s ruining us, and I’ll not have you end up like your father! Do you understand?”

He wanted to hold on to his anger and make the man who’s hurting him and his brother pay for his crime, but after watching the gentle love even in the deep scowl on her face, he softened. His bottom lip quivered, his eyes became wet, and he crumbled into her arms once more. Cecilia held him close and let his tears soak her dress. Her gaze wandered up, spotting her husband standing at the doorway.

End this damn feud, Julius!

Julius sighed and let his shoulders deflate from his exhaustion. Great, now neither his son nor his wife understood why he fought to protect them. It was their hearts; their hearts were too damn large, and instead of seeing the viper ready to poison their lives, they see some sullen, pathetic, destitute woman who needs pity. He tried pity, among many of his more civilized dealings, but doing so was like feeding raw meat to a hungry stray wolf: once they’ve tasted blood, they’ll do anything to get more, even consuming the hand that fed them.

He turned away and walked off, his bitterness dripping through his heart like oil through fingers. There wasn’t even a solid possibility that Lovino was his son, the way Helena opened her legs to any boy or man who offered a shiny coin. The only reason she had targeted him was because he was foolish enough to go to her more times than was necessary.

And, an even bigger mistake, offering a comfortable life should she give him a son. Each error in judgement was followed by another: offering gifts for the child before he was even born, giving Helena money so she could be well-nourished during her pregnancy, having his servants build her a house—more of a hovel, but still—and letting the harlot prance about their home with Lovino on her hip, much to Cecilia’s heartbreak and jealousy. He was a desperate fool then, and now this fool is going to fix his mistakes once and for all.

* * *

  
There was something about Master Vargas that held an unnatural power, unspoken yet felt within close radius, and can spread all over the lands. Those crossing his path scurried away from his raging storm, watched him march with a military-like purpose, and whispered amongst each other warnings to pass to everyone to avoid the danger. This side of Master Vargas was a rarity to behold, so they all knew the one and only cause of it: the Harlot.

But what could have happened in the house to rile Master Vargas up even hours after the Harlot’s departure? Everyone watched on with curiosity, but none approached him to ask.

And that is exactly what Julius needed; the last thing a man with a purpose want is to have to stop to ask silly and prodding questions by nosy workers. He cut through the fields covered with grass that reached high, unknowingly stomping over the small imprints of feet left by his son. Half of the trip followed the same path Veneziano took almost every day to reach the boys’ hiding spot, and the other taking the same path Lovino used to reach his brother.

A quarter of an hour later, the crumbling, cobwebbed, cramped dwelling came into view once Julius broke through the other side of the forest. He followed the noise of activity to the planks tied together to make the door, and simply barged on in. The boom of the door flying open and hitting the wall startled a young boy sitting on the floor, who cried out in surprise and held up the carving knife he was using to whittle a stick into whatever toy it was meant to be.

Hearing her child’s terrorized scream, Helena charged into the room with machete at the ready. She locked eyes with Julius and sighed, tossing her weapon on the large sleep may before walking towards him. “Oh, agapi mou, you scared me! You should have sent your servant to let me know you were visiting! I could have done some tidying up.”

What made Julius sicker: the teasing grin on her full, sensuous lips, or the way she kept her bastard child in front of her so he’d feel guilt for not looking into his round eyes, eyes so fiery and opposing, yet so familiar, so similar to…

To no one. No one but the poor fool who spilled his seed in her diseased caverns, which could have been any man besides Julius. Julius clenched his fists at his sides; he already started to feel the tiny warm drops of blood slip between his fingers and coat his nails. “You listen well, whore, because after this, I am never, ever coming back, and if you try anything else again, I will cease being courteous. I nor my wife and child want to see you ever again, so you are not going to come back to my home, do you understand?”

Helena narrowed her eyes. “What I understand, Julius, is that you are going to treat your son just as fatherly as you do with that whimpering maggot you treasure so much!”

“That bastard is no son of mine!”

Lovino gasped, and Julius fought back the guilt harder as he pointed an imposing, condemning finger at the child standing between them. Curse her! Curse this worthless bitch hurting everyone just to sate her greed for wealth.

“He is not of my blood, and no amount of your damned groveling and harassment is going to change that. Now read my lips clearly, you piece of shameless filth: do not come anywhere near me or my family again, or I swear I’ll make you regret setting foot in my home.”

Helena started to protest as expected, but Julius had no care. He turned and began storming off. That is, until callous hands took hold of his arm, long nails digging into his skin. He yanked as much as he could as she pulled him back with as much strength as her feminine frame would allow. Lovino’s worried was drowned by Helena’s howls of a ravenous crow.

“Mama, stop!”

“You are not breaking your promise!”

“Mama, let him go! Just let him go!”

“I spent years raising our child, it’s your turn!”

“Please, stop, Mama! Please!”

“You liar! You disgusting, impotent terrone!”

“Mama, he’s bleeding! Stop!”

“How could you choose that barren wench over me?!”

It was like a sea of flame swallowing him whole, this sudden red blinding him and igniting him. He felt the fire travel from his heart all the way to the back of his hand, where it stung. When the red dissipated, Julius came to Helena lying on the ground, whimpering and holding her cheek. Lovino knelt next to her and cried, as any child would if they witnessed their mother struck ferociously. In the one moment of clarity, Julius’s gut twisted with shame and terror. But that moment passed, morals burned to ashes as the red flare returned.

Julius’s body did not feel like it was his; he didn’t know whose fist it was pummeling into Helena’s cheeks and lips. He didn’t know whose foot it was kicking into Helena’s gut again and again, with a dire need to make her barren. It was like his soul ascended from his body, and he simply became a spectator to this large, angry beast shoving—no, tossing the defenseless, weeping child away to pounce on his mother. When his fingers tangled in the Harlot’s hair to yank her head back, he didn’t feel the soft, oily locks, or his fist bruising her slender neck. He didn’t feel the resulting sting of his hand slapping her face back and forth, or the hot tears his slaps smeared all over her face.

What he did feel, though, was her writhing under him, her large, delicate breasts brushing against his hands here and there, her thighs rubbing against his groin, giving it a friction that was kicking it to life once more. Her clothes disarrayed, so that he could feel her soot-covered and perfumed skin. He could feel the anger turn into hunger. It wouldn’t be a sin if he took more of her, since she gives it out anyhow, and it was lucky that he did have some golden coins and jewelry on him, to toss on her used and tired body when he was done. She wanted more of his wealth, so she will have to work for it like everyone else.

“Papa, stop!”

The cool air filling Julius’s lung from his gasp stung his throat, and the red finally disappearing left his vision blurry. Coming to his senses, Julius gaped at the purple bruises and deep cuts marring Helena’s face, at the mixture of blood and drool—and, oh, God, teeth—Helena coughed and spat out. One of his hands gripped Helena’s jaw and the other, he was horrified to learn, was ripping her skirt away from her body. He tasted bile in his throat from the smell of her juices and fear-induced urine.

He pushed himself off Helena and rose to his feet. He swallowed a large lump that threatened to choke him as he watched the tiny Lovino drape himself protectively over her. The child buried his sobs and whines into her chest, and Helena, appearing as if she was close to death, weakly reached up and ran her hands over his hair, her voice just as weakly murmuring comfort to ease her son’s fears. How could have done this?

…How could she have turned him into a monster?

He stopped backing away to the door. He took a deep breath and, for the second time that day, turned his nose up at her.

“Do not set foot in my house again.”

He turned away to leave. Abandoning that woman in her condition, as much as a whore that she was, felt despicable, and filled his veins with ice. But it had to be done, for his wife and child.

* * *

  
Now, his last issue was explaining to the love of his life why he looked like he was dragged through the worst of a war, and why his loins were hard against his bottoms. He worked on the explanation during his walk back.

I had a friendly match with one of my workers during break. So far, so good; he truly does get into a match with his workers from time to time, and always come home to Cecilia’s scolding and Veneziano’s admiration. He could even say that he needed to wrestle to release his stress. But what of his erection? He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. His body felt sore and tired, so he was not up to brainstorming another excuse besides the one he already had.

Maybe… maybe his opponents rubbed against him too much? It wasn’t unheard of during a spur between two virile men. It may work, but goodness, will it be embarrassing. If he were lucky, maybe Veneziano will be around, rendering the talk about Julius’s arousal too inappropriate. And if God were truly on his side, he may be able to convince Cecilia to drop her questions and let him pleasure her.

The scenario played out just as he thought once he entered his house: Cecilia interrogated him over the injuries, berated him for being so wild, and gave him a book to hold over his hardness to hide from Veneziano. And because it didn’t seem to show any sign of softening, Cecilia met Julius in the washroom to help him wash. She refused to let him touch her until he was cleaned and bandaged, and Veneziano was tucked away in his room to play with Elizaveta. It surprised him that his hardness held for so long (maybe it kept up from the promise of love that was to come) but the time soon came when he led Cecilia to their room, lied her down, and undressed her.

His hands groped and stroke her in her most sensitive places until her skin trembled. His fingers and lips played with her decadent breasts until they were even perkier than before. When her thighs tightened around him, he felt her wetness all over his groin. His hips rolled into her with tender, sweet slowness at first, so he could cherish the soft whimpers and moans. Then she pressed upward and moaned louder, running her nails down his back, panting encouragement and begging in his ear to make a sweet music of ecstasy with Julius’s grunts and laughter. It was only those two, with their wonderful gift from God in the room over. No whores, no children used as leeches, no ruined reputations or fights, nothing to tear his family, his happiness, to pieces.

And when they both came, they lied closed together, tangled, sweaty, breathless. He brushed away a tear that ran across her nose and pressed his lips on hers. He loved her sweet taste of wine and strawberries. In their little world, they rested in each other’s arms, like the troubles earlier never happened.

  
The water had cooled Helena’s fevered skin, the rag soft against her many cuts and bruises. Despite trembling and sobbing, Lovino did well to apply care to Helena’s face with a steady hand. She sat there, hunched over, staring down at the disgusting puddle of urine that had streamed steadily from between her thighs. She couldn’t bear to look her son in the eyes, not when all she saw was a broken child and, worse still, the man who did this to her. She placed a hand on her belly, where the physical pain was the worst. It was where she carried their gift, the promise of a better life for herself, her child, and Julius. And it seemed that Lovino will be the only one for her.

In those many nights when Julius came to her, when he pleasured himself on her, and held her in his arms and painted a beautiful future for her with promises, Helena never thought that it was a lie. She was used to feeling used and tossed aside by men both prominent and lowly, but none of her flings felt like this. She was an imbecile, plain and simple. She knew to never trust the men who would say anything to make themselves feel like Lotharios in her room, only to leave her bed in the night with some coins on her table. Julius was no different, only paying more, promising more, coming around more, until that barren bitch of his finally had a kid. If that woman— what was her name? Serena? Cynthia? Cecilia. If Cecilia hadn’t had that damn brat, then Lovino would have had the life owed to him.

…It was her fault. It was her and that boy.

Helena nudged Lovino’s hand from her face and stood up. She hissed from the agony flaring up in her pelvis and took a deep breath to help her stuff the pain away. She could just imagine Julius and Cecilia now, chatting away on their lounge chair, mocking her and her lowly life, laughing over her pathetic attempts to have Lovino recognized as a Vargas. Ignoring Lovino’s questions and urges to sit back down, Helena hobbled to the prayer altar. She lit a large candle and carried that and a jar with her.

“Stay here, agapi mou,” she said to Lovino as she passed him. She didn’t know whether Lovino obeyed her or started following her, but it did not matter to her either way. In the forest, the grass crunched under her feet, the soil felt dry, and the usual moisture of Spring was absent. Finally, something that worked in her favor.

On the other side of the forest, Helena quickened her pace and skillfully dodged the sight of the many orchard servants leaving for home. She hid within the shadow of close trees and waited for the men to leave the oil vat. Then, she went over, dunk the jar in the oil, and scooped up a hefty amount. Keeping the jar and candle separate, Helena strolled through the orchard; there was a particular spot that she needed to begin at, one she visited many times with Julius, that instantly came to mind. Before she knew it, she was standing right in the center of the ring of trees that were specially planted to create a private courtyard for the Vargases. She turned to the tree closest to her and poured a thick stream of the olive oil on the trunk. Next was holding the candle to the slick area until the bright orange flame grabbed the oil and set it alight. It traveled up, devouring the bark, the branches, the leaves, the fruit.

Still hungry, the fire jumped from the first tree to the two standing by its sides. Helena ducked her head and ran out of the courtyard.

* * *

  
The sunlight’s warmth caressed Julius’s cheek, coaxing him awake. When he opened his eyes, though, it still seemed like he was dreaming, because there was no way a woman can be a perfect angel glowing in her sleep, with hair like silk lying across her rose cheeks. Yet here she was, lying in his embrace, lips parted as she murmured in her sleep. He angled his head to kiss her. She slid her hands up his chest to his cheek. Her eyes fluttered open, her lips smiling against his.

The first thing she said when they broke the kiss was, “I’m so sorry, Julius. I know you’re just trying to protect us.”

Julius couldn’t quite express how joyful he was that she finally understood because that would require a lot of energy he didn’t have. So, he settled for running his fingers through her hair. “Cecilia, I—”

“Master Vargas!”

Cecilia yelped and yanked the blanket up over herself as the young servant from earlier burst through the door. He had a moment of shame in catching a glimpse of Cecilia’s beautiful bosoms, but he shook himself free of the lust.

“Master Vargas! Master Vargas! Fire!” The servant looked back and pointed. “Fire! The trees! They’re burning!”

“What, hold on a moment, child!” Julius hopped out of bed, grabbed his pants, and started slipping them on. “Calm yourself and speak clearly!”

The servant closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and breathed out slowly. “Your orchard, it’s on fire! Flames everywhere, Master, and we don’t have enough men to put out the fire!”

Julius gaped at the servant, glanced back at his wife, and led the way back out the room. Elizaveta charged out of Veneziano’s room with the child clinging to her hand. Julius stopped to order her to take her son to his room and make sure that he and his mother stayed safe. The frenzy upstairs was nothing compared to the chaos downstairs. Men and women who had the muscle and speed ran out the door with buckets, with soaked cloths covering their face. The closer Julius came to the front door, the more heat he felt pushed through the opening, until he saw it with his own eyes at the doorway. His first thought was a prayer sent to God, thanking Him for the fire not being near the house where his wife and child are, the second was the sheer devastation of his wealth, his inheritance of his father and the men before him, up in smoke.

Julius grabbed a vase next to the door and followed the stampede of men and women to the pond. He dipped the vase in the water, filled it, and hurried out to the orchard. He splashed the water on the tree and, dear God, it’s not working! It’s not working! Helpers are dropping like flies from the smoke overpowering them, and the trees, burning trees, there were too many, spreading faster than even the strongest and quickest of them could put them out. Over the roar of the flames, Julius heard women openly weeping and men giving out orders that they knew was pointless.

The catastrophic noise spilled over to the manor, and Helena found it absolutely delicious. An even better treat was the cries of the boy who stole everything from her and Lovino. For someone so small, he had unbelievably strong lungs; she could hear him all the way from the open window of the kitchen, where she leaned on the wall for support. She couldn’t rest any longer, though, because she wasn’t finished. She moved to peek inside the window, looking for anything to ignite. Most of the kitchen appeared to be made from marble, but she did spot the wooden support beams formed into the marble walls and ceiling with the skills of a talented artist. She looked up and down the wall outside. Vines draped along the stone, even crawling around the upper windows.

Helena ripped a length of the vine off and poured the rest of the oil on it. She slipped the vine into the window and wriggled it until it was close to a beam. She touched the candle to the part coated with oil and jumped back as far as she could. To her surprise, the vine burned faster than the leaves of the trees. The flame traveled into the kitchen and ran up the beam, and up the beam to the ceiling and split onto the other beams. The thick smoke had a delightful scent of mahogany and whatever bread was stored away. It was a false scent, fooling the nose with the feelings of comfort and homecooked dinner.

The very thing happened to Veneziano, as the child clung to Cecilia and wept in her gown. From his sniffling and sobbing, he took in the inviting aroma and wondered in his childish naivete, who is making bread when the trees are on fire? Even more curious to the child was why Mama and Elizaveta were screaming. Wasn’t the fire far away from the house? Weren’t they safe? His questions were answered in the worst possible way: dark gray smoke billowing from under the door, snaking towards them. Cecilia squeezed her child close to her so tightly that Veneziano feared she was going to kill him with her smothering before the smoke did. Outside, Julius’s commands rang loud and fierce over the screams, full of desperation as Veneziano’s future turned to ash.

Yet, none of that matter to the boy as much as the fact that he may never play the flute with Lovino ever again.

Elizaveta rushed to the window and pushed the shutters open. She looked down to estimate the drop and the likelihood of surviving the fall. “Lady Vargas!” Elizaveta shouted between coughs. “We need— we need to— jump!”

Though her mind went wild with panic, Cecilia did have a few clear thoughts for Elizaveta’s idea, which were fears of Veneziano hurting himself and getting trampled (if he even survived the drop) and fears of Veneziano choking on the smoke and dying in her arms.

“Lady Vargas! Lady Vargas, please!”

The air was too heavy with heat, so Cecilia inhaled with shallow, ragged breaths; the smoke stung her eyes, so she squeezed them shut; the hysteria consumed her too much, so Cecilia collapsed to her knees, her body shaking and her mind falling in on itself. Despite being in the same fiery prison, Elizaveta’s common sense fared better, and she used her remaining strength to tug Veneziano—now fighting to stay conscious—from his mother’s arms and drag him to the window. She hoisted Veneziano up on the windowsill and then pushed him off. She didn’t hear him scream, and couldn’t tell if it was the violent chaos drowning him out or she was too late and he was already gone.

Or, she realized, she was so asphyxiated that couldn’t make out what was happening, and that death was slowly, gently removing her grasp on reality. Her vision tunneled, her cheeks felt scorched, and her knees gave out just when she prepared to follow Veneziano, slumping to the floor.

Cecilia cracked her eyes open. The sight of Elizaveta’s body made her wail loudly. She wailed to the heavens, for God to please, please save them.

She didn’t know whether God had heard her or not, but someone outside did. Julius skidded to a stop and looked towards his house. His heart stopped in his chest. The blaze bursting through his home was blinding and angry, the undeniable work of the Devil. The vase of water fell from his grasp. He ran, stumbling over himself and crashing into his servants, and climbed the path up the hill. Halfway up, his vision swam and continued to black out. He couldn’t stop, though, he just couldn’t. Even if it meant filling his lungs with smoke, too, or swallowing so many toxins that he could feel his body giving up. Yet, the last bit of resilience he mustered crumbled away. He hoped that it was the flame’s light playing tricks on him, but there was no mistaking what he spotted lying meters away.

The weight of the discovery was too much on him; he dropped to his knees and crawled, because crawling was all his body could do, straight to the unmoving body of his child. Despite the heatwave enveloping them both, Veneziano’s body felt so cold in his arms. The only warmth coming from the boy was the blood seeping from his head into Julius’s hand. A couple of his servants who saw Julius hurried towards him, one urging him to get away from the burning house, the other offering to help Julius rescue Cecilia. Neither of the men’s voices reached Julius from the dark pit he was in, nor did the screams of his wife that was going weak and hoarse. Julius’s body wracked with sobs, yet he still held on to his son.

He rested his chin on Veneziano’s head and pleaded with God to take him, too. Please, take him, too; just let him be with his love and his joy in heaven.

Even in a safe distance away from the land, the ashes raining down burned Helena’s throat. But it did not bother her; in fact, she could laugh. She wished could laugh in Julius’s face, she was so certain that he was a shattered mess. Her regret, though, was destroying Lovino’s inheritance, even if Julius was vehement about keeping Lovino out. The victory had a bittersweet taste to it, having to burn her son’s throne just so Julius’s entire empire could fall. Allowing herself a small grin on her sore face, Helena turned to leave.

“Mama?”

The familiar voice froze her in place, and the face, the pain-stricken stare in his eyes, made her blood run cold. “Lovino!”

Lovino didn’t say anything else, nor even looked at her. His gaze hovered past her to the field of fire and the figures of men and women rushing to fight it. His small hands wrung the flute he held to his chest, and the fire’s reflection danced in his green eyes.

Helena step closer to him with her arms open. “Lovino, agape mou, what are you doing here?”

Before Helena could get a hold of him, Lovino shoved her away and darted off towards the fields. “Veneziano!”

“Lovino, no! Stop!”

“Veneziano!”

Lovino was a mere few paces from the fire, and somehow, the fire sensed his presence. It flicked a tongue of flame at him, to feed on him as it had done to many others. However, the flame didn’t touch him when Helena caught him and swung him away. He didn’t care that she just saved him, he thrashed and squirm against her hold, even tried to stab her arm with the flute.

“Vene! Vene!” No matter how hard he fought, Helena’s arms didn’t loosen. He surrendered to her hug, sobbing loudly and staining Helena’s gown with his tears. “Mama, what did you do?! What did you do?!”

Helena knelt to cradle Lovino, unable to answer him properly. She rocked him, ignoring the flurry of burning olive leaves raining around them.


End file.
